i can't seem to undertake all the things i should leave in my wake

but it seems like it's not my fault anymore.

the more i age the less i know and the more i talk the less i hear

but i can't seem to reconcile the two.

someday none of this will mean a thing.

sometimes i can take comfort in the fact that nothing i do has consequence

when taken in the grand scheme of things.

i bathe in the prose and sharp-tongued speech but it's nothing but thoughts and empty theory

when words beg to be forgotten.

someday none of this will mean a thing.

spit yourself on me or swallow it down.

spit yourself on me and follow it down.

someday none of this will mean a thing.